


bhool koi humse (na) ho jaye

by toujours_nigel



Category: Kaminey | Scoundrels (2009)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:42:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toujours_nigel/pseuds/toujours_nigel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	bhool koi humse (na) ho jaye

He puts his hands high on her waist, thumbs brushing her breasts beneath the shirt, leans down to her—an inch, if that, her body teetering on heels, and kisses her, holding himself back— wouldn't do to be hungry, to frighten her, to give her a clue that he’s become used to licking blood off his lips and having his skin raw with beard burn—offering her close-mouthed kisses, brushing his mouth against hers.  
   
But she won’t have any of that hard-won chivalry, and wraps her hands over the back of his skull and neck and with nails embedded into scalp and flesh holds his head in place while she licks into his mouth. His hands slips down till they’re crushed together and his hands are desperate on her hips, thumbs digging into the hollows shadowed by her hipbones in the stark landscape of her body—nothing to excess, her abdomen taut muscle under the warm skin his hands find under her shirt—and they’re rocking together like the flat isn't empty behind them, like there isn't a bed behind one of the doors.  
   
He slides his hands up her back, fingers slipping on the smooth skin, brushing what feels like a knife-wound, and she laughs against his mouth while he fumbles with her bra, and kisses him sloppily on the jaw when he gets it off, kisses around to take his earlobe between her teeth and worry it. He should have taken her shirt off first, bloody thing’s too tight for him to actually touch her, and it’s a lesson in frustration to retreat back to the cold air and undo the buttons, which take frustratingly long to manage, and she’s no damn help, thigh between his legs and pushing—and this shouldn't be so damn familiar that he can’t close his eyes for fear of muttering the wrong name—till they've staggered against a wall, and he can finally slide it down her shoulders, and pull off her bra, and get a good look at her. He knows the shape of her under his hands in the dark, and how she tastes, and sounds when he bites the slope of one unmarked shoulder—he’s found the scar curving up her back like an embossed echo of her tip-tilted wing-bone, and is holding her with his fingers braced there—but the swell of her breasts is a revelation, freckled fair under his fingers bitten to the quick, and the pucker of her aureoles under his thumb like an invitation to take the loose pink skin between his lips and suck, and follow her hitching breath in the shuddering of her ribs.  
   
“Charlie,” she says, and her voice is a stuttering breath against his temple, “come to bed, no?”  
   
He looks up at her, best innocent face on, like her shoulder hasn't the neat half-circles of his teeth on it, and already dark red on her pale skin, and kisses her, brother-like, a soft brush of lips on her forehead. “Yeah,” he breathes, and can’t keep the shudder of want from him when she takes his hand and pulls him through the sofas—and the fiddly tables he trips on and kicks aside—and presses him up against the second door and kisses him before—and of course she does this, he should have expected it and doesn’t know why—opening the door he’s leaning his weight on, and laughing at him when he falls ass-backward to the floor.  
  
"And here I thought you were supposed to graceful and that." Last time had been in her car, and up against the wall of the club with a cat watching them with knowing eyes, and he hooks his foot behind her knee and pulls her down to avoid knowing—he knows—how she knows. She skids a little on her hands, bouncing against him, and it's tempting to shove her legs apart and slot his hips into the cradle of hers and rut, like they're panting for it, a foot from the bed he can almost see when she tilts his head painfully up to fit her teeth round his collar-bone.  
  
She sits up and leans back, body arching down to her hands splayed bracketing his thighs, hair falling from her high pony to smear the edges of her smile, like she knows what he's thinking when his eyes slam shut under the onslaught of skin. "Condoms," she says, and he gapes at her because cogent thought went with the sight of her hands on her braided belt, and she sighs and pulls a pack of Kohinoor from her back pocket before going to her knees to tug off the belt and unbutton her fly with a quick flick of her fingers. "Charlie," she says,in a tone that means he's been paying less attention than healthy, "clothes, now."  
  
He sits up to pull his t-shirt off, and feels the weight on his legs shifting off, and the light susurration of denim against skin, and. It's not a surprise, exactly, to have Sophia in his lap in nothing save skin, and eager fingers scrabbling at his jeans, but it's something, still, that he has to hold his breath against. He's not Guddu, who'll only ever get laid if someone accidentally trips and falls on his dick—fat fucking chance, with pajamas on—but none of his other women fuck like her. Not that he knows how she fucks, he thinks, and what the fuck is he doing, thinking, when a pretty girl's got her hand inside his pants, anyway?  
  
"Don't," he manages. Yeah, not ejaculating, that's what he's doing, thinking.  
  
"No?" She strokes him, once, smooth pull up, thumb pressing down against the slit.  
  
"No," he says, and pulls her hand away, folds a kiss into the palm. "I'll blow."  
  
She looks at him like she's disappointed—or amused, something, he can't see her eyes. "Charlie," and she's reaching for something with her other hand, balanced on his grip on her, "honesty is such a bad look on you."  
  
And he'd protest, but she's biting the top off the condom, and talking is over-rated, anyway. Who needs to talk when they're fucking, when he can feel, instead, her hands rolling latex on his dick, and hitching up her hips to slide slowly down till she's flush with him, and he can put his hand against the base of his cock and feel his knuckles brush her? She smiles like a happy kid—really, really, really bad image—and leans in to kiss him, her breasts hanging heavy and brushing his chest with each shallow breath.  
  
He fists a hand in her hair and braces his legs and flips them, and cradles his free arm around her back to cushion her, to hold her head off the ground, and she smiles a challenge at him, and wraps her arms around his back and moves against him. And this is easy and a mindless rhythm to fall into in the slow urgent build of her hips against his, and he can safely close his eyes, because there is no mistaking this, and the body meeting his, and the mouth on his throat and the skin beneath his hands.  
  
He pushes his weight on one arm—careful, careful—and gets a hand to her clit, and finds her hand there already and looks from her cunt up her body to her face, and the small tight smile that's something like smugness and her grip on his hair and the claws in his flesh, and pulls out in a slow slide, and strokes her hip, one-handed, and pushes back in. She tips her head back, hair spilling out, and he feels blood well around her nails, and her cunt shudder around and swallow his prick up. Guddu, he thinks, Baba, Father D'Souza, and grits his teeth so he's still hard when she bites down against a shout and looks like her cat-calm wasn't just broken.  
  
She props up on an elbow and kisses him, and slips her hand from his hair down his straining back to his ass and moves her hips up again, and grins like it's a game, and he's finished last.


End file.
